A New Era
by JigsawFallingIntoPlace
Summary: It's not so much a war as it is a revolt. Ephraim's not the only one that believes this, as the supposed war between humans and mutants wages more and more casualties. Full summary inside. AU, completely full of OCs.
1. Control

_**Summary: **__supposedly, according to the pattern of evolution, an organism adapts to its presented environment in order to guarantee survival. What's the human race doing, then, when it reverts back into its medieval stages of genocide upon their own evolutionary forms?_

Slowly, Ephraim begins to the see sad truth that this new era holds. Subjugated by their human counterparts, mutants must not only be registered, but also contained.

_Evolution, however, makes no mistakes, and it's not until the anti-mutant authoritarian society pushes the boundaries way too far that a revolt occurs, one in which a society – a society devoid of humans – blossoms._

_**Author's note: **__sorry if the summary doesn't say much. I didn't want to give too much away, but I didn't really want to bore any readers, either. This story is entirely made up of original characters (OCs), I just thought it still needed to be labeled under X-Men as I'm pretty much just borrowing the universe. In retrospect, it's pretty much an AU fic, dealing with my own take on the typical subject of the anti-mutant and mutant rebellion movements. I don't know if I'll add any form of romance, but if I do I'll probably make it an even helping of het and slash. I don't know. I might throw in an X-Men character here or there. Let's just see where this goes._

_P.S. Any confusion will be addressed at the end of the chapter._

* * *

><p><strong>1:<strong>

The blinding bolts of thunder cracking outside had become a rhythmic song. The consistent claps, ripping sound waves into shreds, only to force them together to ring and die out, only to happen again. There was no rain; for in fact, this event had become a commonality, happening nearly once or twice a month, thrice if the air was pregnant enough with static. No, it hadn't even rained in nearly three months. The green – or lack thereof – wildlife surrounding Houston had been proof of that. The immense outbursts of wildfires, contagiously spreading from home to home, county to county, from news broadcast to news broadcast… a message had been sent out: these were different times.

And perhaps, that's where the story begins. The new era found a young boy, just of age, sitting in a dimly lit room, staring at the consistent flashes of blinding cracks in the air. A lamp had been shoved into the corner of the room, far away from everything else, letting only a light orange glow barely illuminate the room. His eyes had gotten used to it, though. Hardly ever was he awake during the day to endure the blazing rays of sunlight that scorched their very insides. He lived in the night, lurking and wandering about the auspicious darkness, for it was in the darkness where he was protected the most. After all, what one can't see, one can't condemn.

There was another crack, though this one shivered much longer in the sky, shuddering the skies with a fervor so strong, the boy's silhouette couldn't help but shiver, too, if only slightly.

There was another sound, though this one much warmer, but more subtle. The knocking of bony hands on a wooden door.

"Ephraim," an old woman called out, a heavy Texan accent walking on a thin line between domestic and foreign. "Ты хочешь есть?"

_Russian?_Ephraim, the boy with hollow dark silver eyes asked mentally. It had been a long time since Stara, his grandma, had even bothered speaking Russian, a long lost custom.

"No," he thoughtlessly replied, not really feeling any tempting feelings towards devouring any foods at the time. "I'm not really hungry."

He heard his grandmother sigh exasperatedly. "_Ефрем_…"

He stood. It was only ever when he was called by his Russian name, _Yefrem_, that he knew she was serious. He walked over to his door and pulled it open, staring eye to eye to his grandmother. Her sharp features still rung with a nostalgic youth, although that could have been due to her actually being quite young for a grandmother. Her dark eyes were not with the same depth as Ephraim's, though the idea that any _were_ wasn't really that plausible. Her eyebrows smoothened into a sharp line, outlining her otherwise cursory face.

"We have a guest," she said, her brows furrowed now. "С нами ты будешь есть." Her voice was thorough, a strong sheen of defense coating her vocal fixtures, not allowing any space for arguments.

Ephraim's shoulders hunched. With his grandfather having been an important political figure, he had been used to the many "guests" brought over by his babushka, most of them being stern older men, with little or no hair and a disdain for the society of youth. Indeed, there was one too many times that found Ephraim picking at his uneaten cheese-drowned broccoli, a product of his grandmother's Americanization, while numerous old fellows babbled on about the death in the intelligentsia, the death of philosophy, the death of tradition; indeed, the heaviest topic to have been spread in his recent habitat had always had something to do with Christianity.

He sighed. Generally, his grandmother and he had a relatively unstrained relationship. A generally quiet introvert, Ephraim was always posed to be one with listening ears, whilst his grandmother, too full of words too long and too passionate, babbled on about several crises, young hoodlums, and everything wrong with modern society.

Modern society. What a laugh. Ephraim looked up as he walked down the stairs of his enormous house. Beyond the fantastic staircase, standing in the foyer of what he considered his home, was a black suit, with the soulless blue oxford shirt carefully fitted under it, a nice, solid colored tie surrounding what could have been a neck, had the man inhabiting said outfit had one. He recognized this particular man.

His blood chilled, if only slightly, as the hairs on his arms registered the guest.

Mayor Hardy, he was commonly called. He had not actually been the Houston City Mayor, but had in fact only taken in the county in which he resided in; the lovely Clearbrook, an upper class country forested by nearly multimillion-dollar homes, where the upper middle class stood on the very bottom. As the mayor of a county with a higher ratio of bitter, elderly, and – quite unfortunately – politically active people than the rest of Houston, he represented everyone quite well with his dangerous stance, his show of power through inappropriately expensive clothing and watches.

"Ephraim!" he boasted, almost in a fatherly tone. Ephraim didn't twitch, neither did he jerk, but he merely stared. "It's been a while, my boy. You've gotten quite big now. Tell me, are you in university, now?"

Ephraim nodded, if only awkwardly. "I start in the fall," he couldn't help but add. It didn't really mean much considering summer had in fact just began.

"Exciting, exciting!" Hardy's eyes gleamed, and Ephraim couldn't tell as to whether he was genuinely excited or not. The tough thing to Ephraim about Hardy was knowing whether he was truly genuine or not. Throughout the years, Hardy had been a close friend of Ephraim's grandfather, with whom he had barely had much of a relationship at all, if any. And thus true, having known Ephraim nearly as long as Ephraim remember, he couldn't help but fear the man as of late.

These were different times, after all.

"Ephraim?" Hardy asked, giving Ephraim a questioning look. Ephraim's eyes focused, and he couldn't help but wonder if he meant to zone out or not. "You there?"

He waved a hand to get Ephraim's attention, the Swiss watch catching a particularly sharp glint through a weaker crack of lightning from the outside.

"Sorry, it's been a long day," Ephraim lied. "What did you ask?"

He could feel his babushka's scolding looks from behind him, but that didn't help the hairs on his neck, which were going through bouts of rising and falling.

"What are you studying, my dear boy?"

Ephraim nearly shrugged. To shrug would have been, however, the wrong answer. "Linguistics," he curtly replied, feigning fatigue.

It seemed Hardy had grown bored with the subject, however, as he quickly patted Ephraim on the back and jumped towards his babushka, greeting her like one would greet the first lady.

Ephraim breathed out. His surroundings blurred slightly, with every uncalculated word erupting from Hardy's mouth. He felt something on his neck, and looked up to see dust – if only a few, barely noticeable specks – falling from the chandelier which hung above them.

_No. _Ephraim gulped again and tried to excuse himself. Babushka gave him a firm nod, while Hardy had already forgotten about him, deep in conversation with an intrigued Stara, already hanging his coat and making way towards the living room.

Ephraim reached the furthest bathroom on the first floor. It was a good few minutes from them, a mere guest bathroom that had only ever been used by the visiting old men, and sometimes by their accompanied wives, if only to pamper and admire themselves in the majestic bathroom mirror, before retreating to impress the great of Hilda Tvarova.

He locked the door and put down the toilet cover on the seat, sitting on the velvet toilet cover. He ran his hands through his short, nearly metallic, brown hair, first causing it to stand up in all places, and then smoothing it out. He hands massaged his cranium, the impending headache…

Of all days, today could _not_ be the day for him to lose control. His hand fluttered to the back of his neck, where he felt those blasted specks of dust.

All of his hopes of it being dust vanished as he felt the prickly feeling on his neck and fingers. It definitely wasn't sawdust from the ceiling, and it definitely wasn't any ash residue. He took a look at his hand, if only to see small red dots forming.

Glass. Glass from the fake candles, glass from the light fixtures in the ceiling… He breathed in. He had control. He had learned to control it, after all.

He had tried so hard. It didn't seem fair for him to lose control now.

He didn't notice the quickly elapsing time as he stood up and went to the grandiose counter, deciding to take post at the sink on the left. He'd have to exercise control. If he could prove to himself his control, then perhaps he wouldn't lose control at the dinner table.

After all, he had managed to slip away unknown, hidden in the dark, the light of his true self hidden from those who needn't know….

He looked at the sink. His vision began drying, his focus dying and splitting into several, unequally distributed pieces. His vision was not one of visual images anymore, but rather movement, a vision of stability, connection, _buzzing power._ He felt the buzzing. It was enough to let him know he had control.

He turned on the tap, half of his concentration still on the subtle, incessant buzzing, the other on his surroundings. He felt the light creak of the lever, and suddenly, he felt it.

It was stronger; it was smoother, but nevertheless still as powerful, if not more. He felt the buzzing gain momentum, his concentration requiring more of his vision to elapse. His ability to feel was slowly dissipating as he felt himself lose control. Managing to maintain a steady view of the sink, he saw no water come out.

He counted down. This could either end up a mess, or it could work. He hadn't done it before, but had often thought about it. All he had to do was keep the buzzing alive…

And then, for a fraction of a second, he let go. Water spurted out from the sink in a speed unnatural even for a deprived drain; the water, however, did not touch the surface of the sink, but rather, curved and jetted into mid-air, twisting about her and their, the incessant buzzing fading into a consistent hum.

Ephraim nearly smiled as he closed the tap. With one eye on the hovering, delicate water, he sat on the toilet cozy again. If he could just get it to…

There was a knock on the bathroom door, and that was enough to send the water roaring towards the ground. Troubled, indecisive about which to address, he replied with a measly "_что__"_as he fumbled to prevent the now spilt water from reaching the door. The spreading water, half soaking up the imported rug, half rushing in every direction, using the ends of tiles as irrigation, stopped clean as he fell on the ground, nearly splashing himself in the process.

"What?" An American voice responds in a dumbstruck tone. "Sorry, I don't understand Russian. However, your grandmother does express her disdain at your prolonged stay in the bathroom, as your food is getting cold…"

Ephraim nearly panicked. "O-okay, sorry, tell her I'll – tell her I'll be on my way," he stuttered, his mind more focused on the water that now slowly resembled a stream, rising and heading toward the sink.

Most of the moisture on the floor and on the rug had disappeared by the time Ephraim managed to sit down and sigh for a moment. He did have control. Perhaps not total control – he had managed to lose concentration rather quickly, _and_ he ended up dying the tap-water magenta due to accidentally shedding some of the rug on which he sat – but overall, it was slightly satisfying.

After all, it wouldn't do well for the man notorious for hating mutants to find out that a mutant had been so close to him for all these years.

* * *

><p><strong>Notes: <strong>There is some Russian, though not too much, I don't think. I've put the sentences below in case anyone was curious as to what they sounded like and what they meant.

- "Ты хочешь есть?" (Ty ha-CHESH yist'), Russian for "Are you hungry?/Do you want to eat?"

- "Ефрем", (yi-FREM), or (YE-frim), Russian variation of "Ephraim", pronounched "Efrum".

- "С нами ты будешь есть", (s NA-mi ty BU-desh yist'), Russian for "You _will_ eat with us."

- "Что?", (shto), Russian for "what?"

Also, it's really common for Russian names to have a million nicknames and diminutives (think how Alexandr has the nick name Sasha, etc). I couldn't find very many things on the name I picked for Ephraim's grandmother, as her name isn't very Russian in the first place (Hilda is actually Germanic, this kind of comes in to play later on), so she is addressed in many ways:  
>- Hilda Tvarova (Ephraim's last name is Tvarov, keep the gender distinction in mind)<br>- Stara (from the Russian word Стара, short form of Старая, meaning "old")  
>- Babushka, from the Russian word "Бабушка", meaning "granny".<p>

Sorry I had to explain so much of it, I just feel like this might all be of relative importance later on in the story.


	2. Identity

**I'm cranking these out quite quickly, I've noticed. I dunno, this is all just good fun. I would like to hear what everyone thinks of this story so far - if anyone's actually reading it, etc., etc. - so reviews would be appreciated! The story, I'm going to note right now, starts off kind of slow, perhaps, but it will pick up its pace (the same goes for chapters, they'll get longer with time). **

**I forgot to write a disclaimer. I obviously don't own X-Men. I do own Ephraim, though. Bahahahaha!**

**2: Identity**

The incessant thunder had begun to replace conversation at the long, wooden dinner table. Ephraim, sitting a good three feet from Hardy and his babushka, had resorted to distracting himself with the loosening fabric of the satin tablecloth. Indeed, he had tried his utmost hardest to ignore anything that he felt would set him off.

He had a sense of foreboding, all emaciating from the man seated not too far from him, deep in conversation with his grandmother, while devouring his steak in an animalistic manner. Ephraim picked at his food. He wasn't lying when he said he wasn't hungry. His mind had been travelling in places not within proximity to food.

Ephraim nearly sighed. It had been twenty minutes. If he could just swallow what little he could, then perhaps he could excuse himself. That being said, he'd be able to retreat to his bedroom, and not deal with the inadvertent possibility of doing something he'd regret. He had cleaned up in the restroom quite well. His control of whatever it was he had exhibited had come a long ways, for it was no new fact to Ephraim that he could_ do_ such things.

In fact, if Ephraim checked his calendar, he'd learn that he had spent a good five years hiding, somewhat practicing in control, obscure to the world as he hid from their prying, condemning eyes. While not a very strong grip had ever been established – after all, why would one risk exposing themselves to a society that had been growingly hateful of them – a stable one was definitely an option. Ephraim could breathe slightly easier, knowing that if he were to lose control, it would take a great deal of emotion to do so. Emotion not unlike what he had felt earlier.

_Calm it, Ef_, he nearly murmured to himself. It was all a game, he rationalized; after all, it had only been after he had felt strong surges of emotion – be it a thunderous excitement, a rolling fear, or a meticulous bout of heavy concentration – that he had even managed to feel the damned buzzing; to feel himself grow a million arms and seem to grasp the very insides of everything around him.

Sometimes, Ephraim fantasized of what he could do had he not had to stay hidden.

He flipped his steak over, making a show of cutting it up so as to fool his babushka. Ephraim wasn't the least bit ashamed of what he could do. If anything, he was mostly afraid, and slightly… excited? Sure, when he first managed to disintegrate his bedroom window at the beginning of the now constantly thunderous nights, he had been afraid and somewhat ashamed. Coupled with ongoing nightmares, and deadly migraines, Ephraim wasn't so sure he would even want to simple _be_ anymore.

And then the day his grandfather died came, and he felt his arms stretch to the world. To say that he was _relieved_ by his grandfather's death would have been too much of a stretch. The man had been there for him… financially. Of course, if he had ever known what Ephraim truly was… if _anyone _ever knew what Ephraim truly was…

He nearly shuddered, a sick taste rolling in his mouth, the previous lurches of his stomach coming back up from before. It was a daunting feeling. Ephraim had seen what he did to the glass that one thunderous night when he had been all but a mere thirteen-year-old; he had seen countless times the death and rebirth of inanimate objects, he had seen the way he bent and simply _touched_ the water from the tap in the restroom…

It wasn't simply telekinesis, he had noted. It was so much more; a connection much deeper had been formed. He could _hear_ the item _breath_; he could _feel_ every atom in whatever he held. If anything, the fear of being imprisoned – the fear of _what_ would be done to him, should anyone find out – nearly outweighed the fear of what he would _do_ to those who attempted. If he could have reduced an expensive, fine, twelve-foot-tall glass window into shards of rocky sand in a matter of seconds – a product from an insidious nightmare and a phantasmagorical setting – he was afraid what he could do in retaliation to fear, to survival…

He was close to excusing himself when his train of thought had been interrupted by something Hardy hissed with sadistic venom.

"Mutants," he said quietly, finishing up his steak and wiping the edge of his mouth with the napkin on his lap. Babushka looked towards Ephraim, but Hardy waved it off. "He's old enough, Hilda."

His babushka had a worried look on her face; somewhat remnant of a dear caught in headlights, but she merely nodded. Ephraim didn't say anything and pretended to eat. His ears had perked up to the conversation.

"There is word of a piece of legislation that excludes mutants from the constitution," he poised, sipping on his white wine a little too enthusiastically. Upon hearing this, Ephraim stopped breathing, hanging on to every last moment of silence, willing for the very first time that Hardy continue.

Hardy flashed him a look. He felt his face heat up but dodged his looks and focused on his uneaten steak. It appeared his grandmother had been unaffected by this, however, as she had sat back and snapped for the maid to pour her some more wine.

Ephraim took a sip of his own wine. It had been courtesy of Hardy, and even though he wasn't technically of age to be drinking alcohol, per se, Hardy had agreed "nobody here was a stranger". The fact Ephraim was also Russian could have easily been a justification for the wine.

Ephraim shook his head and tried to focus. It seemed as if his every fiber was clinging to Hardy's every word, afraid that if he missed a beat, he would fall behind and lose it all.

"And?" his grandmother asked apathetically, thanking the maid as she tipped her wine glass and took a sip. "Mutants have never had any rights, what's them not being legally included in the constitution going to do? Allow unions?"

Hardy snickered. Ephraim was afraid it was going to get incredibly political, that he would lose them in their conversation over the discourse of American history and their warped views on correct policies – such as mutant rights, or lack thereof.

However, he was surprised when Hardy didn't plunge into a political monologue. Merely taking another sip of his wine, Hardy sat forward. "Rumor has it, the referendum has decided on this, so the decision is being made as we speak. It is not that, however, that sparks a new set of order…"

He took another sip, and stretched his pauses theatrically. His rhetoric flowing through Ephraim, identified but unaffected.

"My dear Hilda," he said, producing a fake laugh. "Mutants pose a threat to society. We can't have women who can read our very private thoughts walking the streets; we simply cannot allow these – these freaks of nature, so to say – walk our streets! Their weapons are more volatile than that of our own military's!"

He paused for a moment, and leaned in. Whether he had intended for Ephraim to hear this or not had been lost on Ephraim, as Ephraim had found the perfect position to appear relatively busy – not too interested – but not too unfazed so as to be inobservant of his surroundings. Indeed, when Hardy leaned in further to mutter in a discrete voice, he managed to hear him correctly. "There's even a girl who, at this moment, is in the confines due to her nature. The girl can manipulate energy – energy of all forms. Imagine if this little girl understood the full extent to her power, _imagine_, dear Hilda, what could happen should she manifest them enough to learn of her nuclear abilities."

Jackpot. Hilda's stoic appearance had shattered. As original refugees from the Soviet Union back in the sixties, seeking asylum from communist Russia, Hilda had an incredible soft spot for anything nuclear related – particularly as the Cold War had been an important turning point in her life – and this couldn't have been any more obvious. Her facial features had shattered, and she had aged considerably, worried lines, etched into her face, she spoke softly, just quietly enough for Ephraim to barely hear, "they could be the end of us…"

Hardy sat back rather smugly, taking another sip of his wine, and then finally setting the glass down. He looked at his watch, seemingly getting ready to depart. "Indeed, with the new, ahem, _improvements_, we now have the authority to not only _classify_, but also register, and confine any mutants of considerable danger."

He paused, and then stood up, Hilda on his trail. "Of course, were it up to me, I'd lock them all up."

His babushka merely nodded distantly, but fervently as she tried to recompose herself. "I reckon Mrs. Hardy must be worried," Hilda said in a different tone. "Come, I'll walk you out."

Hardy bade Ephraim a glance and a wave of his hand, the glittering watch catching his eye again.

"До свидания_,_" Ephraim waved back, bravely muttering goodbye in Russian. He noticed Hardy's simply twitch, and then looked down at his steak, trying hard not to look as if he understood anything.

He waited a minute or two until the mutual voices of Hardy and his babushka had died down to bare buzzes. He breathed out, his heart pumping with increasing fervor. So mutants were not only going to be registered and classified, but if they fit the standards, they would also be locked up? He tried to calm his nerves, but the rolling feeling that infused panic into his blood stream kept popping its ugly face in every thought.

As he breathed out, he hadn't noticed his strong grip on his wine glass, which, after the third little breathing, had not cracked, but simply _lost figure_. Not only did the glass suddenly trail down upon the tablecloth, but so had all of the wine, little dots and dusts trailing a pool of colorful dust on the table. As the dust collected, he noticed the pool sink, the red being absorbed into the tablecloth, the clear hardening and becoming solid shards of glass.

He took in another deep breath, and placed his hand over the stained area over the cloth. Relaxed and focused on simply _feeling_, he dragged his hand over to his now oddly shaped wine glass, and released. The puddle trailed from mid-air below his hands and pooled into the nearly destroyed wine glass.

He did the same thing with the glass, spending a minute or two more trying to not only relax, but also to make the wine glass look as identical as it was before. He heard the door shut behind him, and a sudden gasp.

He twisted around, his neck nearly snapping, to see one of the maids, frail and quiet, staring at him in fearful eyes.

"N-no," he stuttered, standing now. "This is all a misunderstanding, I didn't – what did – what did you see?"

He tried playing it safe, but the maid wouldn't reply. She simply stared at him. It didn't take him long to realize, however, that the maid probably didn't speak English.

He sighed. "Ву понимете по-русски?" he asked politely, trying to make the best of the situation. The maid didn't reply, she simply stood there, dumbstruck, shaking slightly.

Ephraim stood up. This proved to be a mistake, however, as the maid simply panicked and retreated back into the kitchen, muttering something in what he seemed to recall was Spanish.

His babushka didn't speak Spanish. He tried calming down. Maids never spoke to his babushka; in fact, they never spoke at all. He was overreacting for nothing…

He stood up with his plate in his left hand, and his wine glass cupped in his right hand. He reckoned dinner was finished, as Hardy had seemingly left. Making his way towards the door that led to the kitchen, his heart skipped a beat. His palms were beginning to sweat, and he could feel dust – bare and subtle – fall from the ceiling.

_Snap out of it_, he told himself before pushing his emotions to the back of his mind. He pushed the swinging door to find an empty kitchen. He looked around – not a maid in sight. Sighing, he set down the plate and the wine glass near the closest sink, and leaned against one of the counters.

_Snap out of it_, he told himself again, rubbing his temples. _You're the grandson of an incredibly influential real estate agent, and of a late influential politician, they won't take any ordinary maid's words…_ he rationalized. He stood up and left the kitchen, his heart pumping almost back to the same speed as normal. Every minute or so, it'd skip a beat, but it was definitely progress. He pushed his chair in as his babushka walked back into the dining room. Without waiting for her, he muttered something along the lines of "tired, gonna head to bed", and left the kitchen, lost in his own thoughts as he turned into the foyer and climbed the stairs. Turning left on the second floor, he eventually made it to his room and crashed on his bed. The lamp was still dimly lit, and his fan had been spinning endlessly. The cold atmosphere in his room calmed his nerves, and before he knew it, he was out cold for the night.

* * *

><p>- "Вы понимаете по-русски?" (Vy puhnyimaYEtyi paRUSki), Russian for "Do you understand Russian?"<p>

- "До свидания," (Da sviDAniya), Russian for "Goodbye".

**Also, can anyone guess what Ephraim's ability is?**


End file.
